


The Hound of Baker Street

by ryahlii



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Asperger Syndrome, Asperger's Sherlock Holmes, Autism Spectrum, Bloodhound - Freeform, Bullied Sherlock Holmes, Cute, Doctor John Watson, Drug Addict Sherlock, Gen, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, It's For a Case, Lies, Mind Palace, Overworked Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Philip Anderson Bashing, Philip Anderson Being a Dick, Philip Anderson Being an Idiot, Redbeard - Freeform, Service Dogs, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock gets a pet, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Violin, Stress, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, antisocial Sherlock, aspie!sherlock, bloodhound dog, emotional support dog, john watson helps, sally donovan is mean, sherlock's dog, university flashbacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryahlii/pseuds/ryahlii
Summary: In which John gets Sherlock an emotional support dog.***Service dogs can:- reduce stress- reduce anxiety- help depression and trauma- increase positivity and socialization.- help John find Sherlock's drugs :)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 84





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I don't know what the hell this is lmao. Probably just a bunch of shorts about Sherlock's dog. There's no planned out storyline and I'm just writing whatever I feel like!  
> *cue canned applause*  
> Anyway, here are some topics I MIGHT cover.  
> \- Overwork/stress  
> \- John being worried.  
> \- some mentions of Sherlock's time in University  
> \- Mycroft being a good brother but also pretending that it's just business  
> \- Why Sally Donovan hates Sherlock  
> \- The dog fucking MURDERING Anderson. (jk jk....unless??)  
> \- mentions of Aspergers (he's on the spectrum)
> 
> Or I might just give up after the first chapter because I'll get sad about the lack of feedback! :D

John Watson got a therapy dog for Sherlock. In secret.

A secret dog. 

A secret fucking therapy dog. 

Standing in front of the apartment’s chipping door, John is clenching the leash and a shiny plastic bag trailing a crinkly reciept, his fingers slick with sweat and his heart beating fast, too fast. It’s like a little hummingbird trapped in the cage of his ribs and as he winds the ridged fabric around and around his palm, he hesitates. Doubt is like a spider creeping up the nape of his neck and his thoughts are suddening a thousand tiny bugs buzzing pinging inside his skull.

What if he doesn’t like dogs? Why didn’t he ask? Oh god, he should’ve asked! 

_You’ve reached a new kind of idiocy, John. A bloody new kind of stupid._

Because this— This was stupid. He crosses his arms over his body in a sort of self-hug, feeling the contents of the bag knock together in a little chime of discomfort. Goddammit, it's too late to go back now. And looking at the floppy brown dog standing next to him, he's not even sure he wants to. 

_Open the door for Christ sakes. Explain yourself!_

John pushes the door, watching as it swings open to reveal the room, empty save for the remnants of some sort experiment that had been left to stew in the compacted kitchen. The smell wafts over like some sort of unwelcome moth, and he groans, running a hand through his hair.

“Utter cock.”

Sherlock’s not even there. 

The dog looks at him, tail wagging hopefully and he pats the top of its fuzzy head, trying to calm his exasperation. Of course, he’s not here. Why did he think he’d even be here? Now he had to wait there for who-knows-how-long, with the horrible anticipation festering in his gut as Sherlock pranced around in who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. Maybe that's a little unfair, but John isn't really feeling fair anyway.

“Mrs. Hudson?”, He calls down the stairs. 

There’s a beat and he had just begun to suspect that she wasn’t home either but then a delicate tinkle sounds from the kitchen. Startled, his heart jumps into his throat and he rushes in, the dog padding alongside him. In the messy room, he finds Mrs. Hudson standing over a broken teacup, dismay painted over her face, her hand poised in astonishment. She takes several steps, backing into the overwhelmed cupboards before meeting John’s eyes. She smiles, looking sheepish.

“Oh, hello dear.”

“What…” He looks at her, nonplussed. “What are you doing in our kitchen?”

“Ah well, Sherlock just left. You know how he is, always dashing about! But he was in a bit of a state—” , She ignores John’s expression and rambles on. “So I decided to just pop on in and have a look, see if he was back up on his habits, you know.”  


“Christ. Did you find anything?”

“Couple of needles, but it wasn’t much. I reckon he just got bored again. I was going to fix him a cuppa, for when he gets back but…” She trails off and looks at the porcelain shards scattered on the floor. A severed finger is just visible, peeking out from the white powder. “There was already something in it.”

John frowns, worry creasing his brow. He wanted to go out to find Sherlock and make sure he was alright. Despite the lack of drugs in the kitchen, there were sure to be more stashed away in the crevices of the apartment. Once he had found a syringe, already fitted with its sharp counterpart, tucked away in the folds of the couch. He had nearly sat on it.

However, a small sense of reason tugged on his sleeve. If Sherlock was, in fact, far gone to the junky limbo of morphine or cocaine, Mycroft would have been sure to tell him, already immersed by shiny screens and fingers tap-tap-tapping at keys. Sherlock had been getting better, too. Slowly, painstakingly, and littered manic highs and lows, he had actually begun to try. 

Sighing John ran a tired hand over his eyes. He gestured meekly towards the shattered pieces and sighs. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up.”

His cell phone pings.

John jams his hand into his pocket so fast that a thread pops loose, hooking under his nail. Shaking it free, he opens the message, hoping for news about Sherlock. The message fills his screen but brings forth nothing but disappointment in the tense room.

__  
Hospital.  
Emergency, come now. 

“Oh no, no, no. Bugger off will you?”, John yanks his coat off a chair, mumbling. “I am so so sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Can you watch the dog till I get back?”

He hardly notices as she twitches slightly, giving a stiff nod that seemed to tell the opposite of what a nod should, instead hiding the fact that she would much rather leave the dog to its own doings, in the upstairs flat. John thrusts the leash into her hands and hastens for the door, apologetically. Nodding at the dirty finger of which the dog was looking a little too keen on, he shudders. “You don’t have to clean that. Just keep the dog away from it.”

“Bye, now!”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock crouched on the carpeted floor of 221B, peering into the drooping eyes of what appeared to be a slowly deflating stuffed animal. Except it wasn’t a stuffed animal, plushie, or toy of any sort. It was a dog. _A dog. ___

__What the bloody hell is a dog doing in his flat?_ _

__Reaching out a hand, he lifts one of its velvet ears, gingerly turning it against the dust particles suspended in light that filtered through the crowded room. Although he would never admit it, the gesture was more for himself than anything else. A lifetime spent piecing together delicate puzzles and scraping at rough knots had given Sherlock all the tools he needed to glean anything from anyone: Noteworthy or otherwise._ _

__Physical contact is wholly unnecessary and nothing more than an act, as artificial as going through the motions of a script. Sherlock knew this yet as his motions struck a rhythm traveling over its satiny head, he found himself unable to stop. The downy feeling under his fingertips was an anchor grounding him to the now, in that London flat; effective as pain and more peaceful than he had ever remembered._ _

__Clean. Deep umber and docile. A perfect puppet pet._ _

__The reticent creature had slumped to the ground, settling in amongst stray news clippings that had settled down to rest a week prior. Its licorice nose gies a little huff that ruffled the papers and a great paw came to tuck under itself, right at home. Somewhere deep in Sherlock’s mind palace, a drawer opens, divulging a small file._ _

____Bloodhounds._  
Brought by William the conqueror after the conquering of England.  
1066.  
Known for their acute sense of sme— ___

____Sherlock swipes an annoyed hand through the air, slashing through the ribbon of text running carousels round his head. Useless information. Obviously the dog had been brought by John, several hours ago, judging from the traces of fur strewn across the apartment. Ms. Hudson was a slight possibility but her nervous behavior around the animals ruled her unlikely. Balance of probability, after all. And despite bloodhounds’ “sniffer dog” reputation, Lestrade holding another drugs bust seems out of the question._ _ _ _

____A wet snuffling on his arm cuts through the silent monologue and he glances down at the sagging face. The dog had resolved to licking his wrist with a sandpaper tongue and Sherlock hums, content. Exhaling a long breath, he let himself fall backwards, staring at the yellowing ceiling which had suddenly soared overhead to tower above like a pale ochre sky. He can hear the dog plodding over and as it plops its heavy head over his chest, Sherlock fights a smile.____

___ _

____  
He could get used to this.  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot longer than I intended oops

The hospital had been packed to the brim, people practically spilling in and out its doors like water in a tin can, far too full yet still bombarded by the onslaught of more; Nurses and doctors alike finding themselves drowning in the undue state. 

Surgeries ran long, patients had run wild, and by the time John stumbled out into the cold London air, a blazing sun was already waving its cheery goodbyes and making room for the night. As it wound down the drain of the city skyline, rich orange placed a kiss over the busy streets, soft and sweet. A tangerine twilight.

He called a taxi and with a couple notes too many, the familiar sign of Speedy’s sandwiches was already pulling into view. Practically tripping up the stairwell, his hands knock against the rough grain of the wallpaper in an only half convincing semblance of caution. A small sticky note left from work tacks itself onto the hem of his trouser and John rips it off hazardously.

Sherlock must be back by now. Which means he’s seen the dog.

Their dog.

A groan rises between John’s lips and frustration colors his cheeks. Before the text from the hospital, he had planned almost a whole speech, rolling reasons around and around his tongue until the words had turned to jumbled heaps of nothings. He had imagined Sherlock’s incredulous reactions so many times, burning behind his eyes. It seemed only a matter of time before they actually came to fruition.

_You got me a therapy dog?!  
I don’t need therapy, John._

Not angrily, but in those sharp cutting tones he’d heard so many times before. Cold metal and a paring knife, poised for disappointment.

_Why would you think I need your help?_

“Stupid,” John mumbles to himself, turning the key in the door. He wouldn’t say that. 

He enters with a clatter, too loud in the waiting silence of the apartment and looks around.  
“Sherlock?”

His bag drops to the floor with a muffled thump and a nervous prickle skirts up his neck. The flat was too quiet to make sense, finally empty of the incessant buzz of his flatmate. It was absent of the high keening notes of a violin and rambling chatter into nothings, always equipped with flighty fingers that ran through and through that tangle of curls. The manic energy of the room was stilled and as John crept into the room, it almost seemed peaceful. Relaxed.

Impossible.

“Sherlock?”, he calls again.

This time there’s a response: a muffled sigh coming from somewhere on the carpet. John strides over, studying Sherlock incredulously. His long body was splayed across the ground, an open book laying over part of his chest and the great brown dog on another. He didn’t snore but rather let out a rhythm of steady breaths, causing the paper to flutter in its bindings as its throbbing pulses swept through his body.

John nudges him softly, pulling away at the sleep that held him in a drowsy hug.  
“Wake up.”

“Mmm.”

“You can’t sleep on the floor, you’ll catch a cold.”

He’s greeted with bleary eyes, peering up at him as they try to rouse from some hazy land of torpor. Finally, Sherlock pushes himself up, the dog readjusting to his lap and snuffling with satisfaction. He yawns hugely.

John gestures meekly at the hound with a faint smile, “I got you a dog.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at him, playing with the dog’s ears in an almost childlike manner. “I noticed. Lestrade was it?”

“I—yes. He thought it would be—”, he falters, unsure. “He thought you’d like one.”

The truth was actually that Lestrade had been working with police canines, looking for a replacement sniffer dog after one at the station had passed away. It was only by chance that a therapy and service pet group had been visiting and in a capricious measure of spontaneity, he phoned John to have a look at them. Although taken aback, John had to admit that it made sense. 

Ever since Mary’s death, Sherlock had seemed different. John knew more than anyone that it was normal—important even— to grieve, to hold on and let go, but his friend seemed to have let it crack something inside of him. Something visceral had splintered in the very core of who he was and John just wished he could piece it together again. Acting along in the script set for ordinary, he felt although he was doing nothing—Pressing packing tape around and around that dark figure and watching as it slipped about him, slack and useless.

This was a chance to help.

So that very night, he found himself cradling a large bloodhound, signing papers and picking out dog beds, all the while wondering whether this was actually happening. The dog was a beautiful old girl, teak and walnut folds running the length of her limber body, edges tipped with ashy paws. She had been a sniffer dog for the police force, and at Lestrade’s words, “A bloody good one” but that life was clipped short at the crack of a bullet. So now she was here: a therapy dog, home from a war.

She was like John.

Sherlock had begun murmuring to the dog and she pressed her wet nose to his face. He laughs. “I thought so. You’re a police dog, aren’t you, girl? Sniffing out all those nasty drugs? Can you find mine?”

John studies his face quietly, his worries suddenly catching up to him. He had been distracted by the scene before him, a mild peaceful sort of Sherlock touseled with sleep, seemingly having accepted the dog as his own with relatively no context at all. But now, leaning closer, John could see past the facade.

Deep shadows like bruises rest under Sherlock's eyes and nail marks are tracked into the palms of his hands, a token left behind by some thought that was too too much. He keeps pulling at his left sleeve and John knows that there is a tiny blot on the pale skin of his wrist where a needle had been jabbed under to fill his veins with those toxic reprieves. Shifting on one leg, with an expression remarkably reminiscent of the older Holmes brother, he clears his throat. Sherlock glances up.  
“So you’re using again, then?”

“Just a bit. Boring problems require exciting solutions. Or maybe just a bigger problem.” He shrugs, too nonchalant. “I haven’t decided yet.”

John wants to say more, say something— anything but he notices the protective sort of bubble that Sherlock has seemed to found, still delicate but still there. He drops the topic. It’s a late night and right now, that particular box of snakes could gladly stay closed. Instead he smirks at his friend, in a feeble attempt to tease him.  
“You knew she’s a girl. You checked.”

He’s met with a barely concealed eye roll.  
“No…” Sherlock had plucked the book from the floor, flipping to a dog eared page in a dry musing fashion. “I examined the nature of her gait and contrasted it with what I’ve seen in other—” He looks up. “Of course I checked.”

John gives a weak chuckle, his head still in a tiny war wondering again and again this was right. He's wondering whether the breach those fragile walls, whether he should get into the fact that she’s a therapy dog. For their _problems_. 

Opening his mouth, the words bloom and die on his tongue. He still feels although he’s saying too little, sentences falling from his lips paper thin and inadequate. For Christ’s sake, one doesn’t just adopt a 40 kilogram bloodhound with hardly any explanation and be faced with far too little questions. Infuriatingly, Sherlock doesn’t even seem fazed. 

The sticky note is still crumpled in his fist.

“Her name’s Chess,” John says, a little too fast.

Sherlock frowns, looking thoughtful. His hand rubs the skin above his lip, hardly aware of its own movement. He asks, “As in Francesca? Bit weird name for a dog, isn’t it?”

“Actually, I think it's just Chess,” John smiles faintly. “Greg said something about her eating a couple of the pieces when she was a puppy.” 

“Hm. Cute.” Sherlock lightly slaps his knee, mumbling something to himself. As he unfolds himself off the floor, Chess scoots off but still seems almost bound to him with adoration. Sherlock scratches her ear fondly and John watches the exchange in mild surprise. 

“Right, then.” He says. “Good night.”

Sherlock is already halfway across the room, Chess at his heels. Some last bit of John’s advocation for the dog had risen from the awkward mess to offer something other than babble and as Sherlock’s figure disappears up the stairs, he adds on, “Dogs can help manage stress. Just so you know.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay one more thing. The whole thing with Mary happened and nothing is different from the canon storyline except that Rosie doesn't exist. As much as I love the thought of John and Sherlock raising her together, writing children is exhausting :/


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so like some time has passed. Maybe a couple weeks idk.

Sherlock wants drugs.

The sentence doesn’t even seem to meet the line halfway, so much of a gross understatement, it’s meaning might as well be dead. But still, it’s not.

Maybe instead, Sherlock _needs_ drugs.

It’s a fierce animalistic part of him, albeit small and a part nonetheless, as integrated in him as the air that pushes through his lungs. And it’s strong. This little piece of him, a tiny chip in the puzzle, is savage and visceral, an all consuming hunger that grates on him from the inside out until he’s nothing but a hollow well of broken bones.

He thought he could hold out a month. It had only been two and a half weeks before his resolve melted hourglass sand between his fingertips. No cases. No excuses.

He can’t.

Sherlock’s mind is a vast landscape of knowledge, rolling plains of facts and waters scribbled into the margins of his brain. It’s near perfect. Intelligent, objective, and sound: A model sentience. And somehow still—it all falls, distorts, defying all rational thought, his hope of self bending to the howling creature.

God, he wants it so bad, it physically hurts. Actual pain may be shooting a million stars through his body right now and for all he knows, he might already be flung out into the reaches of space, so far gone no one would ever hear if he screamed. He’s been lost in the vacuum for quite some time now.

Manic and feral, buzzing is coursing through his veins and with each pressing tide it pulls him just—slightly—closer to the needle, the trigger, the fall. He knows where it is, too. It would be so so easy. He can see it.There’s a drawer on his nightstand-there’s a drawer on his nightstand- there’s a drawer-and it’s-right there-right there-

John isn’t here right now. 

Sherlock stands up too forcefully, and a rush of blood courses to his head. Fuzzy cotton seems to press against the inside of his skull and he reaches as if to pull it away, clear the air and maybe then himself. He presses a rough stitched pillow to his face and tries not to scream, fingernails having torn the threads from its seams. They dangle tauntingly at his nose and he flings it aside.

Two quick strides later and he’s looming over to the mahogany bench, so innocent in its betrayal. With shaking hands, he twists the little brass knob and yanks at the chest, swept up by a crazed expectation. Instead of sliding open to reveal that sweet sweet remission, it simply rattles, locked by a different Sherlock in a stronger time. God, he hates this. 

Taking the stairs two at a time, he stumbles into the living room. Practically lunging across the cluttered space, his shaking fingers find solace as they tear the contents of the room apart in a futile attempt to locate his old stash. It’s long gone now, evacuated no doubt by his ridiculously thorough friend. 

Sherlock upends a scratched wooden dresser and a cascade of newspapers tumble over the couch, filling air with a cloying dust. He sinks to his knees. A ragged sound, pieced in what is almost a sob, escapes him. As his hands cover the cracks in his face and he’s glad that for once, nobody’s there to watch them fall apart.

“Okay. Okay.”, Fingers are tangling in his hair and running marathons over his eyes, trying to cover the cravings from his view. He was trying. He had been _trying._

Mycroft’s smug face swims into view. Vaguely, Sherlock wonders what he is: maybe a projection of his mind palace or just—as always— another strange bit of his sanity chipping away. 

_You were always the stupid one, weren’t you?_

“Shut up,” Sherlock murmurs. “Christ just— Shut up.”

Next it’s Mary and as those deep reproachful eyes rise to meet his own, Sherlock might be sick. As she leans in, her dirty blond hair tickles his nose and her breath is steady and warm. Alive.

_You’re wasting me, Sherlock._

“I know…I know… ”, He presses 1 2 3 fingers to his lips, willing them to stay closed, locked with a silver key and thrown into the darkest abyss of his conscious. Cunning cobalt and viridian green.This isn’t real.

There’s rough panting at his ear, the kind that suggests an ocean breeze, carrying the scent of dry grass rustling in the wind and the scratchy touch of sand between his toes. Sherlock’s eyes squeeze closed, sea salted lashes crashing against each other, holding back a tide of tears that never really came anyway. Not you.

But when he looks up, there’s no red fur, curly in a setting sun. There’s no Mycroft, Mary, no memories. But there’s still a dog. His dog. 

Chess.

She’s sat on her haunches, so close to him he could feel every inch of her chestnut fur, rough and silky smooth all at once. Hot breath is pooling on his neck and it takes Sherlock too long to notice that she’d begun licking him, sandpaper tongue soothing over the fissures in his composure. Gasping a little, he wraps his arms around her warm solid body and she huffs softly.

Sherlock doesn’t know how long they stay like that, collapsed together in the corner of that room as the clock ticks away the seconds and his heartbeat thrums a song against her’s. The sunlight tracks a steady journey up the wall and when it washes over him to bathe the flat in its gentle glow, he exhales. He’s still not fine and he might never be again. 

But maybe, just for now— he can be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I so freaking melodramatic??? Like?? Should I stop????  
> Oh and also Chess is only in the last paragraphs oof

**Author's Note:**

> Also, if anyone knows how to make those cool edits with music in the background, then please please please message me! I have a request and then I'll write a fic for you (a short one bc I struggle with commitment haha) 
> 
> xxx 
> 
> byeee and love you if you left kudos
> 
> \- ryahlii


End file.
